


Stop, Look, Listen

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-06
Updated: 2003-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Eminem and his daughter and a smile too sweet for words. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop, Look, Listen

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics from Beth Orton's _Live As You Dream_. Extra special thanks to Sandy for the thoughtful read-through and the spot-on suggestions.

_And if you've taken me for someone who cares  
Well there's a dream I know we both have shared_

  
It's late on a Tuesday morning and Lance is wandering through an aquarium somewhere in Connecticut; Briahna's all kinds of happy in the carrier on his back, drooling on his shoulder and babbling in his ear. She hasn't been sleeping through the night and Joey's got a sinus infection and Kelly's just exhausted and they all really just need a break. Besides, Briahna really likes the fishies and Lance thinks this is the most fun he's had in too damn long and hey, the aquarium isn't bad, either. They're both sort of zoning out in front of a reef exhibit, and there's no one else around, so it's quiet, floaty almost, and for minute it's like being there, like snorkeling, like stargazing, and wow. Lance is really fucking tired. Bri's eyes are closing, one of her hands curled against his throat, her breath warm and even, mesmerizing.

So much so that it's not the man standing next to him Lance notices first, but his reflection in the glass, shimmery, surrounded by water and light. He's hoisting a little girl in his arms, and they're talking low and pointing at the fish, her smudgy fingers following where his voice leads, following the fish with colors and names and _daddy, daddy, look!_ Lance smiles, and sees the reflection smile back. There's something familiar about the jut of his chin, and even when Lance turns, it takes him a minute to realize he's smiling at Eminem.

Eminem in flat-front khakis and a thick cotton sweater; Eminem in plain black-framed glasses, the kind Lance's dad always calls BC's; Eminem and his daughter and a smile too sweet for words.

 _Fuck_.

"Bass," he says, quirking an eyebrow. "Didn't know you had a kid."

Lance smiles again, and for once he's actually happy to be recognized. "Oh, uhm, no. I don't. She isn't," Briahna stirs at the sound of his voice, lifts her head a little and then snuggles closer. He cups one hand over her head, murmurs low in his throat, just a few seconds until her eyelids flutter and he knows she's asleep. When Lance looks up again, Eminem's still there. "This is Joey's little girl," he says, and Em nods as if that explains something more, and maybe it does.

"Cool."

Lance turns back to the reef, trying not to notice how hot the man beside him is, because it seems wrong, all sorts of wrong, especially when Em's daughter tugs on Lance's sleeve. "They have blue lobsters here," she tells him, a little breathless. "And whales, too!"

"No way," Lance teases. "Where are they?"

"In there!" she squirms, pointing through the doorway behind them, and Em sets her down, wrapping his hand around her fingers, looking her in the eye.

"It's not polite to point, baby." She nods, seriously, and he brushes his lips across her nose, smiling when she giggles. When she turns back to Lance, she's beaming, and her fingers are tucked safely into her daddy's.

"Whales sing underwater," she tells Lance, eyes wide, like it's a special sort of secret. "Really long songs, and they aren't fish, either. I'm Hailie."

"Hi, Hailie. I'm Lance," he says, dropping to one knee easily. "And this is Briahna. She's sleeping."

"I'm too big for naps," she says, and Lance wonders if maybe that's wishful thinking but he nods anyway, and is rewarded with another bright smile. "My daddy sings, too."

"Really?" Lance asks, smiling. He thinks years and years in close quarters with Chris and JC have made following the conversational leaps of six year old girls a whole lot easier than it should be. "Your daddy's not a whale, is he?"

"No, silly!"

Lance wrinkles his nose. "Is he a fish, then?"

Eminem rolls his eyes and scoops his giggling daughter into his arms. "Don't encourage her, man."

As Lance stands, the shadows by the wall spread and move and Lance thinks _fuck_ , and then _bodyguard_ , and then the shadows materialize, thick and scowling and whispering by Em's ear. Lance turns his head and Lonnie's at his side, by Briahna's side, really, because Lance is notorious for giving Lonnie the slip, but never when he's out with Bri. He wouldn't dare.

From what Lance can tell, there are a couple busloads of school kids in the parking lot, which is unexpected and not great, but Lonnie's got the car at one of the staff entrances out back so it's not really a problem either.

"Time to go," Lance hears Em say, and out of no where he wonders if it's raining. Em's back is turned, but Lance can see Hailie pouting over her father's shoulder, perfect, although he's pretty sure she won't get anywhere with it today. "Say goodbye, baby."

Hailie wiggles her fingers at Lance and suddenly the pout's all but gone. "G'bye, Lance."

"Pleasure to meet you, Hailie." Lance smiles, and even though it's something he says often, today he actually means it. "B'bye."

Em half-turns, his right hand reaching to slide over Lance's palm, fingers circling Lance's wrist, tightsure and quick, and there's that jut of his chin again, cocky like Lance remembers even though his eyes are warm blue and his smile's the same one he shines on Hailie. "See ya around, Bass."

"Sure," Lance says. "See ya."

Then Lonnie's steering him toward one exit and Eminem and his guy are moving toward the other. Lance looks over his shoulder, and Em winks before he slips out the side door, his voice clear and so fucking sweet, singing _bye bye bye_ as he goes. Lonnie takes exactly seventeen steps in silence, Lance is counting, before the big man's laughing so hard they actually have to stop, Lance cooing to Briahna while Lonnie leans in the narrow corridor, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

"Bass," the bodyguard gasps, finally, one huge hand falling heavily on Lance's crossed arms. "You're killing me, man. Chris is so hearin' about this!"

"You wouldn't," but Lance's wallet is already open, because oh yeah, Lonnie definitely would.

"Tellin' Joey first, though. And Kelly! Gettin' all flirty-flirty with Mr. Mathers in front of her sweet baby girl..."

"Fucker," Lance rumbles, covering Briahna's ears. "How much?"

 **. . .**

  
Lance smiles until it hurts, and then he sucks it up smiles some more. They all do, except for Chris, who sometimes smiles and sometimes doesn't, but he's older, and everyone knows he's the weird one, so he can get away with more than the rest of them. Saturday night, and the place is crowded with producers and artists and too many of the slick-as-fuck execs who make Lance's skin crawl even now. Through the mass of bodies he catches a glimpse of close-cropped platinum hair and narrow shoulders and he knows it's Eminem by the way his pulse races, even before the rapper turns around, blue eyes flashing fierce. There's no way Lance can keep smiling now, not the right smile anyway, so he finds Joey's elbow and whispers _takin' a break, man_ in his ear and Joey nods and keeps smiling and Lance slips out of the room and makes his way down the long corridor towards a door he thinks is probably an exit.

It's not especially nice outside, damp and heavy in the service lane behind the hotel, but it's a relief to breathe again, to close his eyes and crack his neck and rest his shoulders against the rough surface of the wall. He hears the soft slip of track pants before he feels the other man's voice, smoother than Lance thinks it should be, less growl than he expects from Eminem in a dark alley. "Whatcha doin' here, Bass?"

"Breathin'," Lance says, full-on smirk. "Tryin' to, anyway."

"Hate these things, man." Em steps closer, out of the shadows, leans one hand on the wall by Lance's shoulder. "Industry fuckers."

He's so close, all pale skin and pink lips and bad attitude, and good lord, Lance wants to taste him, see if he's bittersweet all over. "Yeah. Well, it could be worse. You could have to smile at them and play pretty boybander all night."

"But you _are_ a pretty boybander," Em says. His finger brushes across Lance's jaw and Lance holds his breath, less sure of himself now than he's been in a very long time. Em's dangerous without his daughter, without bodyguards, with his thumb slicking over Lance's lips. "So pretty, Bass. Where's my smile?"

Lance smiles then, sweet and shy and he wants to take it back but he can't, Em's seen it and besides, he's smiling too, not shy and not sweet and he's not a boybander, not at all. Lance licks his own lips, leans forward and licks Em's, too, quick and then slow, slower, until he's licking the hot inside of Eminem's mouth, narrow hips pressing against his, hard and demanding and so fucking good.

His skin is sweat-smooth and slippery under Lance's hands, all bone and muscle and breathy little gasps, a crisscross of old scars and fresh ink and Lance wants this, wants this right now. Em's teeth nipping his earlobe, biting into his collarbone and leaving a mark, the low rumble in Lance's throat already too loud, everybody who's anybody two doors and half a long hallway away, media and managers and Em's bigass scary crew, and Lance knows this is dangerous, knows he should pull away now, before it goes any further, before it's too late.

But Em slides down Lance's body, hot mouth and wet lips painting a fiery trail all the way down, and he figures if Em's willing to risk it, then who is he to object?

 **. . .**

  
Lance loves Vegas, loves the lights and the glimmer and the long slow slide from there, up or down, because this is Vegas, baby, and it could go either way. He loves the feel of hot dice in his hands and the flat burn of cardstock behind his eyes; he loves knowing the odds aren't in his favor, loves the whole idea of crossing over, because this Vegas, baby, and there's smart money on either side of the line.

It's a Thursday afternoon, early, not that time matters in a casino, and Lance pushes away from the table and nods at Lonnie, because he promised to be a good boy and stick close no matter what. There are more celebrities than he can shake a stick at in Vegas this week, and every place they go is crawling with cameras anyway, so it isn't like there's really any danger, but Lance lets Lonnie push through the men's room door ahead of him anyway, just to clear it, because Lance can hold his own dick for fuck's sake. Head down, he hears the door swing closed behind them but he doesn't look up in time avoid slamming into the hard wall of Lonnie's back.

"The fuck?" Lance says, rubbing his forehead. All he can see is solid black jacket, and damn it, Lonnie's back isn't soft, not at all. Also, Lonnie's not moving, but Lance knows better than to push, so he just stands there, looking down again and there's the white tile floor, bare girl-legs sprawled across it, too still.

"Gonna be okay," Lonnie says softly, which doesn't make any sense at all until Lance realizes Lonnie's not talking to him. "C'mere, sweetie," Lonnie says, reaching out a hand, and Lance knows he's not talking to the legs, either, even though they twitch. He hears a tiny breath, like a gasp, like a sob, like, like a, _no godfuckingdamnit no_ , and when Lonnie says, "Lance, man," stepping aside so Lance can see, he's already crouching low, thinking _fuck fuck fuck_ but smiling just a little because that's what kids need to see, and yeah, he knows it's gotta be a kid.

But this, no, kids don't need to see this, bruises and vomit and _fuck_ , Lance can't believe he's seeing her, here, now. Not this kid, not Hailie, Eminem's Hailie, tears running down her cheeks, huddled against the men's room wall with her mother, _Kim_ , passed out on the floor. "Hey," he says, his voice gentle as can be, "Hailie? I'm a friend of your daddy's, darlin'. Lance, remember? We met at the aquarium? With the whales?"

Another gaspy little breath, and her eyes are red-rimmed, smudged hollow underneath. "Whales sing," she says, and Lance swallows hard at the hitch in her voice.

"Like your daddy," Lance says, smiling a little more and holding out his hand. Hailie shuffles forward, but Kim's legs are there and she'd have to step over them and that's just too much. She starts crying again, shaky arms raised over her head. _Up_ , Lance thinks. _Up_ , and he's already moving, lifting her like she's as light as Briahna, his hands smoothing her hair and her face, wet and hot, pressed against his shoulder. "We're gonna call your daddy now, okay?"

She nods a little and her legs squeeze his ribs, and Lance thinks maybe he knows why Eminem's so fucking pissed all the time. Lonnie's hand on his back steers him out of the men's room, finally, and there's Mike on the other side, making sure no one else gets in. Lonnie and Mike exchange a few words, and then Mike passes Lance a cell phone, and it's Johnny's voice in his ear, telling him Em's doing promotions all day but their people are tracking him down. Lance wants the tapes, he tells Johnny, whatever the hotel has, and he knows they have something. He wants the signatures on their non-disclosure agreements confirmed, too; there's no way this isn't getting out, but he doesn't want his face all over MTV if he can help it. Johnny's still talking when Lance's cell buzzes in his pocket, and he hates to interrupt so he just hands Johnny back to Mike and grabs his phone.

Lance feels Lonnie's hand on his back again and they're moving before Lance answers the call, but that's okay, he can walk and talk at the same time without much trouble now, even with his arms full of sniffling girl. Lance knows the casino hasn't skipped a beat, knows the slot machines are still cha-chinging and the dealers are still dealing, because this is Vegas, baby, and all bets are on, always, but the only sounds he can hear right now are Hailie's jagged breaths and Em's voice in his ear, fast and furious and sounding more like Chris than Lance would ever, ever, mention. "What the fuck, Bass? Fuck, fuck, fuck! Put her on, motherfucker, put her on, put her on…"

"We're almost to the elevator, just hang on, okay? She's, yeah. She's shook up, but yeah, she's okay." And Lance doesn't know what else to say, but there's no way he's putting the phone to Hailie's ear before they're off the casino floor because he knows she'll start crying again as soon as she hears her daddy's voice, and Lance doesn't want to draw any more attention than he already has. So he listens, the flood of violence in his ear raw and strangely brilliant, and the only thing he can do is hum soft sounds at both of them, Em and Hailie, just a low murmur and _shh, shh, shh_ , until the elevator doors close and Lonnie's arms cross over his chest and Lance knows everyone else from here on up is one of them, so. "Okay, man. I'm gonna put her on, okay?"

"Yeah, fuck, Bass. Yeah."

Lance turns his head away from the phone, easier that way, somehow, and rubs his thumb over Hailie's cheek. "Your daddy's on the phone," he says, and a shaky smile spreads across her face. She doesn't reach for the phone though, her hands tight little fists behind his shoulders, so Lance just presses the phone against her ear so she can hear.

"Daddy?" she says, sweet and tiny and then, "Daddy, daddy, daddy," sobs like Lance has never heard before and hopes he never hears again.

He's so damn glad when the elevator doors open and he sees their security guys spaced throughout the hallway, sees JC chewing his lip in Justin's doorway and he knows NSYNC has plenty of drama, but not like this. He's never been more grateful than when JC kisses his cheek and rubs his hair and reminds him to call if he needs anything, anything at all and then disappears behind Justin's door. Lonnie walks through Lance's rooms quickly, just checking, and when he waves them inside, Hailie's snuffling softly on his shoulder and Lance is telling Em, "Not sayin' that, okay? Do what you gotta do, but she needs you, man. Just, fine. I got her, we're good. Yeah, soon."

"You all right, Bass?" Lonnie asks, and Lance closes his eyes and nods his head. "Yeah, okay. He's on his way?"

"Yeah," Lance says. "I don't know when, but just let him in, okay? No knocking, in case she falls asleep or something. And no one else, unless the guys need something, okay?"

Thirty minutes later, Hailie's picking at her grilled cheese and eating her French fries and ignoring her fruit salad all together. They're watching the Rugrats on tv, which Lance isn't sure about but Hailie says Caillou is for babies and Lance can't find anything else even close to appropriate, so. The Rugrats it is, and Lance is eating the melon from the fruit salad and Hailie's snuggled on his lap, just zoning out in front of the tv.

He thinks he lost track of the time, because he isn't expecting it when the door clicks closed and there's Em, looking more like Slim Shady than ever, do-rag and ball cap and saggy pants, swollen knuckles and his lips pressed in a hard pale line. He is his image now, rage written taut across his body, and Lance shivers, shaking off the fear. He blinks hard, and there's a Barbie backpack slung over Em's shoulder and a strangled sound in his throat when Hailie scrambles off of Lance's legs and into her father's arms, and Lance knows Em isn't his image anymore, not really, not even close.

"Daddy," Hailie whispers, and the tears are back again. "Daddy, Mommy's sick."

Lance rubs his hands over his thighs and tries not to think about the streaks in Em's make-up and the sound of his voice telling her, "I know, baby. I'm so sorry. She's gonna be okay, though."

Lance wonders what exactly he's apologizing for, and then startles a little when Hailie asks, "Why are you sorry, Daddy?"

Em's hands move to Hailie's cheeks and he pulls away just enough to look into her eyes. "I'm sorry you were alone, Hailie. I know it was scary and I'm sorry it happened. I'll try not to ever let anything like that happen again, okay?"

She nods like she understands, squirming into Em's chest, his arms wrapped around her like he'll never let go. His eyes are closed, wet lashes fanned across his cheek, and Lance swallows hard, wishes he could make himself look away.

"Daddy," Hailie says, her voice muffled against his shirt. "Daddy, Lance has green eyes. He's my friend."

"I know, baby," he says, his own eyes flashing open, blue sparks burning over Lance's skin. "He's my friend, too."

"French fries," she says, so quiet Lance isn't sure he heard her, but Em stands up and carries her back to the couch. He sits beside Lance, so close their thighs are touching, and Hailie picks up a fry but doesn't eat it. "Sleepy..." she mumbles. "Ice cream, daddy... Whales?"

"Shhhh," he says, taking the French fry from her fingers. He leans back and Hailie curls into him, eyes closed, her cheek pressed into his chest. She's asleep, just like that, and Em quirks an eyebrow at Lance. "Whales, huh? You been singing to my kid, Bass?"

"Uhm, yeah? I don't know, man. Probably." Lance smiles, rubs his hands over his thighs, long fingers pressing through denim folds. "She's a good kid," he says, not sure what else to say.

"The best."

Lance thinks Em is beautiful like this, tear-stained and tired, and Lance wants to hold him like he's holding Hailie, wants him to feel safe, even if it's just for a little while. He wants to make it better. "She's lucky to have you," Lance says, meaning it.

"Thanks, man. For real, thank you for this." Em's voice is tight, vibrating as he scrubs one hand over his face and winces at the smear of make-up on his fingers. "Goddamn nanny knows, man. Kim's not allowed _near_ Hailie without supervision, and Hailie was all alone, and _fuck_. I can never make up for that. Anybody coulda found her, in a goddamn restroom, and she coulda been hurt, or like, _taken_ , and _motherfucker_." Em swallows hard, white teeth sinking into his bottom lip, and Lance wants to lick the hurt away. "Lance, I don't. I mean, _fuck_. Thank you."

Lance shrugs, smiles a little. "You're welcome."

Em swipes at his eyes again, one hand still curled in Hailie's hair, and just shakes his head. "I'm a mess, man. I should get outta here and take care of this shit. There's a million things, and I gotta call Dre still, make Kim disappear. She wasn't even supposed to be here, man, and you know there's gonna be pictures. Fuck."

Lance eyes the bruise blooming over Em's knuckles, dark and fiery and he bites his lip to keep from kissing over the swell. He thinks about crushed plaster and the shape of Em's fist; he thinks about his own long fingers and all the open hollows Em leaves behind.

When Lance looks up, Em's sort of nodding, his voice low, and, "Yeah, Kim, hospital. Fuck, I gotta get movin', man."

"Maybe, but there's gonna be photographers everywhere for another few hours, at least. Can't do anything about that, but hotel security's sending up the tapes, yeah? I figured you'd want them." Lance keeps his voice steady, serious, because this part is business and Lance knows how to handle business. They both do. "We have solid non-disclosures here so there's nothing to worry about as far _that_ goes, but they'll probably leak whatever footage they have from before I got there. Unless you have..." Em's eyes are bloodshot and glassy, and Lance swallows the rest of his sentence, feels the slide of his Adam's apple and wishes there were more he could do. "Just, please. Don't go out there yet, okay? It'll be a feeding frenzy. Y'all can stay here, really, it's cool."

"Nah, it won't be that bad. I been through worse, and Hailie'll sleep through it, probably. Besides, you've done enough. More than I woulda asked for even if I'da been thinking straight, which, fuck, I wasn't. Still might not be."

Lance brushes the words away, shaking his head, because he hasn't done that much, really, and he's pretty sure the scene outside _will_ be that bad. "Look, there's press all over anyway, but now? It's gonna be crazy. And they'll have the your hotel staked out, too, so Hailie will have to sleep through it twice. So, seriously, if you don't want to stay with me, fine, but you don't have to leave yet, either. We have this whole floor, and there are a few empty rooms. Y'all are welcome to them."

"You guys have the whole floor?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, yeah. It's just, easier this way, and there's five of us and our security and everybody else we travel with, and. Yeah. The whole floor."

"Huh."

"Boyband mania," Lance says, rolling his eyes. "It's not all hype, yo."

Em laughs, and it's a soft sound, something he'd like to hear again. "Whatever, yo."

"You'll stay?"

He nods. "I'm gonna go take off my make-up, though." And there's the wink again, chin cocked, and it's really just striking. "You mind?"

"Help yourself," Lance says, gesturing vaguely. A hotel's a hotel, and he's pretty sure Em's been in enough of them to know where everything is. "Whatever you need."

"I need this," he says, his hand curving behind Lance's neck, fingers stretching into soft spikes, shiveryhot, like the air before a summer storm. Em's lips are chapped and dry and brushing over Lance's for just the barest second, almost chaste, but Em's mouth is like fire and Lance doesn't want to let it go. Hailie sniffles a little as Em settles her in Lance's lap, and Lance thinks he's probably a very bad man, but he still turns to watch her daddy shucking off his shirt as he disappears in the shadows beyond the bedroom door.

Hailie's dozing again not a minute later, and Lance hopes like hell Em's gonna make someone pay for allowing anything to happen to her, because there's no fucking excuse for it. None. If it were up to him, half a dozen people would have lost their jobs already, at least, but it's not up to him, so he does what he can. He's still on the phone when Lonnie leans into the room, the tapes Lance asked for in his hands and a file folder tucked under his arm.

Lance manages to stand up, drop the cell phone into his pocket, and cross the room all without disturbing Hailie, which he decides means she's probably not going to wake up any time soon. "Thanks, man," he says.

Lonnie nods. The tapes are carefully labeled, date, time frame, location. Lonnie sets them on the table by the door, one by one, like he's dealing cards, and hands Lance the folder. "No problem," Lonnie says. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Mr. Mathers' bodyguard is waiting," Lonnie says, meeting Lance's eyes. "He'd like a moment."

"Yeah, and I'd like to give him one, but I assume he wants Em?"

Lonnie nods again, grinning this time. He's seen Lance in action. "He's an okay guy, Bass. He's worried about the girl, mostly. Wishes he'd been there."

"Yeah, well." And goddamn it, Lance doesn't want to feel bad for the guy, doesn't want Lonnie feeling bad for him either. "He wasn't there, so. Not his fault, Hailie wasn't his assignment today and there's nothing he can do about it now."

"No, there's not."

They just look at each other then, Lance regretting the times he's slipped away and Lonnie looking pretty pleased with himself for inspiring these moments of contrition.

"Yeah, well." Lance says again, shifting Hailie in his arms and trying not to blush. "Thanks again, man."

"No problem." Lonnie grins some more, and then says, "Thank _you_. Joey owes me twenty bucks now, so don't let me forget to collect, okay, Bass?"

Lance laughs. "You fuckers bet on this? Y'all are sick."

Lonnie closes the door softly on his way out, but it opens again just a few seconds later, and there's Chris, all tight energy and guarded eyes. "You know what you're doing here, man?"

"I don't know, Chris. I hope so."

"She okay?" he asks, one hand fluttering toward Hailie. Chris has a protective streak a mile wide, born of his own fucked-up childhood and fine-tuned first by his sisters and later by his bandmates, years and years of making sure, of watching when no one else wanted to see. It's who Chris is, strong and sure and Lance isn't surprised to see him open a little wider now, knows Chris has room in his heart for one more little girl. "She wasn't _hurt_ or anything?"

"No," but Lance winces anyway. "She's just worn out from it all, you know? She's gonna be fine, though."

Chris lets his knuckles brush the soft curve of Hailie's neck, and Lance remembers how that felt the first time, way back in Orlando, when Lance was still soft and strange and exhausted all the time. He thinks Chris is like a big cat, always marking his territory. "You make sure she is, kiddo."

And that's that. Chris nods once, tilts his head and Lance knows Em's behind him somewhere, silent, and Lance turns, not sure what he's going to see. Em cleans up nice, though, Lance's jeans hanging just a little on his hips, smooth skin still damp from the shower. His hand is warm on the small of Lance's back for half a second before he lifts Hailie from Lance's arms.

Hailie whimpers, and Em murmurs in her ear. A flurry of soft sounds, words Lance can't really hear until Hailie smiles and Em asks her, "How 'bout a bubble bath, baby?"

Hailie giggles, and Em looks up, smiling at Lance for a second and then meeting Chris's eyes. "Thanks," Em says quietly, and Lance isn't sure why he's thanking Chris, but something passes from light eyes to dark and back again, and Lance's next breath feels a little easier.

"Don't mention it," Chris says, opening the door. "Take care, man."

JC stops by a little later, three shopping bags dangling from his fingers and a shy smile crinkling his eyes. "Kelly and I went shopping," JC says, rustling the bags, excited. "We had so much fun, but don't tell Justin I said so, okay? He says we shouldn't've because she's just a little girl and she could've been hurt and she's probably scared and it's like, exploitative or something, but, man, I just wanted her to have pretty clothes to change into, you know?"

"Jayce," Lance says, his voice catching in his throat. "Y'all are the best."

JC just sets the bags at Lance's feet and hugs him close. Lance hears Em and Hailie singing _Itsy Bitsy Spider_ in the bathroom and JC giggles, pulling away from Lance just enough to see his eyes. Lance is smiling.

"There's jammies in one of these," JC says. "And a couple books Justin picked out, too. He says they're age appropriate and everything. And look! Ruffly socks!"

So, Lance loves Vegas, loves to gamble, loves the slow sweet slide of risk and the long lure of reward, but he hopes to God the burn in his belly is more than just luck because yeah, this is Vegas, baby, but he doesn't ever want this ride to end.

 **. . .**

  
Em looks like a grad student in his glasses, bundled energy focused behind his laptop, fingers flying over the keys. Lance is almost used to it now, Em in his life like this, but it still surprises Joey every time. It's a Sunday morning, and Joey's still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, leaning in the skinny bus-kitchen and listening to the coffee machine gurgle. When Lance bumps his hip and reaches past him for the cream, Joey can't resist saying it, dropping his voice and whispering like it's the first time he's noticed, "Dude, your boyfriend's, like, a total geek!"

"I know," Lance says, smiling. "Makes good coffee, too."

"But he's supposed to be a badass!"

"I know," Lance says again, glancing at Em over his shoulder. "And I'm supposed to be shy and Justin's supposed to be innocent and you're supposed to be a ladies man."

"Hey! I am a ladies man!"

"Joe, please."

"But. He's Eminem!"

Lance rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know. Pretty cool, huh?"

"No! It's not cool, it's weird. Even Kelly likes him, man. It's not right."

Em's humming something now, chewing at his lower lip, reading intently. Lance's face flushes pink, fingers rubbing at his collarbone, his eyes gone hazy in the low morning light. "Joe, seriously. I'm tellin' you, it's all sorts of right."

Joey's hands clamp over his ears and he squeezes his eyes shut tight. "La la la la," he chants, too loud, and Em looks up from his laptop, startled, like he hadn't known anyone else was up yet. Lance smiles, feels the thrum of those cool blue eyes warming as he watches, and then he flicks Joey's forehead, hard.

"Shhhh," Lance warns softly. "The kids are still sleepin', Joey."

"Yeah, and?" Joey says, because really, Lance sounds just like Kelly and Joey doesn't get it. So what if the girls are up early? They'll just sleep more later, right? "Gonna be up eventually anyway."

"True," Lance says slowly, because Lance loves Hailie, he does, and he loves Bri, too. But mornings with Em are few and far between, both of their schedules are too crazy now and even when he's here Em has trouble sleeping, and all Lance wants to do is drag his boyfriend back to bed, fuck again and drowse some more, then wake up together in a little while. "It's just..."

Joey grins then, and Lance sighs. He doesn't want to explain. Not when Em's leaning in the doorway, hipbones like handles and silky muscles smooth all over, hot hands reaching for Lance, arms wrapping around him like current grounding, and Lance doesn't want to explain at all.

"Mornin', Joe," Em says over Lance's shoulder, fingers tugging gently at Lance's waist, a hot blush creeping up the back of Lance's neck. "Goin' back to bed now, okay?"

Em isn't asking, and the low growl in Lance's throat says he isn't listening, but Joey still feels obligated to respond. "No sex on the bus," he hisses after them, but it's a stupid rule, and one Joey breaks regularly, so. Yeah.

Besides, Joey thinks, claiming one of the mugs abandoned on the counter, Lance needs something to believe in now, and anyway, Em does make good coffee.

 **. . .**

  
Lance is in Russia, exhausted and thrilled and more than a little lost. He doesn't know what time it is, but he answers the phone when it rings because he does know what day it is, and he knows it's either Em or one of the guys. He's already talked to Justin twice today.

"D'I wake you, baby?" Em's voice, sweeter than Lance remembers, sore in places Lance wishes he could touch.

"Nah," Lance breathes, and it's true. He wasn't really asleep. "Just restin'. Flight drills runnin' through my head."

"So fuckin' proud of you," Em says. "Just wanted to tell you that. Make sure you don't forget."

Lance's eyes fill with hot tears, salty in his throat and he feels like he's breathing underwater. "Me? Don't you forget. It's your big night, right? The VMAs. God, I hate that I'm missin' it." Lance bites his lip, knuckles pressing the soft hollows beneath his eyes. "Hey, you nervous?"

"Some," Em says, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. Missing Lance is an ache that doesn't go away, and yeah, Em's nervous, worried and tongue-tied and Hailie just lost another tooth. "I hate these thing, man. I never know what to say."

It's a conversation they've had before, many times. Em says Lance doesn't know what it's like for him, because with NSYNC there's always the five of them, so Lance has never been up there all alone. Lance used to think Em was full of it, because Em's award show posse is fucking huge, but since Lance has been in Russia, surrounded by strangers he's supposed to know, he thinks he might understand after all. He thinks Justin is in for the surprise of his life.

"You could make a list for when you win," Lance offers, and it's not brilliant or anything but still, he knows it's good advice. "Or like, notes? So you'll know."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. You don't have to look at them, you know? Just keep the paper in your pocket, like a reminder. It's there if you need it."

"Need you more," he says quietly, and Lance knows it's true. He wishes he could be there, but he can't, he isn't, and there's nothing he can do about it now. Em takes a deep breath and clears his throat, asking, "Say hi to Hailie?"

"Of course!"

Hailie's squeal in the background and then her voice in his ear, "Lance! Are you really on another planet?"

"No yet, darlin'," Lance laughs. "Did Chris tell you that?"

"JC," she says, giggling. "But Chris said whales live in outer space, too! Is it true?"

"Nope, it's not true, but there was a movie like that once." Hailie giggles some more and Lance just swallows hard. He misses all of them then, an ache like lightning, like thunder in his blood, and it's so hard not to make promises he isn't sure he can keep. Still, he tries. "If you want, we'll go back to the aquarium when I get home."

"Really?"

" _Really_ really."

There's a pause, just Hailie breathing, and then she asks, "Lance?" and Lance can almost see the sweet shape of her lips in full pout. Lance _mmhmms_ , thinking that over the phone at least he doesn't have to hide his smile. "Daddy's singing tonight and he says I can't go with him, but when you take me to see the whales, will you sing again? Will you sing for them?"

"Sure," Lance laughs, but not at Hailie, and it's just that easy because no matter what, there are some things he knows he can do. "I'll sing for the whales, darlin', and I'll sing for you, too. I promise."

 **. . .**

  
The package arrives on a Monday, Chris's careful printing clear across the padded envelope, crayon drawings and handwritten letters and an unlabeled dvd tucked inside. Lance knows the disc is a copy of the VMAs, and it's all he can do to take a deep breath, tuck one of the letters in his pocket and set the rest aside. Otherwise he'll be late, and he can't have that, not now, not with his sponsorship in question and the Russians just looking for an excuse.

He watches the VMAs later, curled up on the couch with a box of tissues, ice cold and burning through a bottle of vodka he'd been saving just for this. He watches Justin, terrified but still radiant, brilliant under the brightest lights. He watches Chris and Joey and JC, all of them so damn proud, happy and teary and maybe just a little off-balance. JC most of all, and Lance knows just how he feels, can see the shock of it on JC's face, like losing a limb or something, and it's almost like being there.

As always, the camera notices them, flashing between Justin and the guys, finding Em more than once in between, reaction shots, mostly, and Lance wonders if maybe there are rumors about them now, hopes it's a coincidence, hopes it's just MTV building the drama. Em is scowling on the screen, his eyes like secrets, his fingers steepled and pressed against his lips, bitten nails like jagged little keys. Lance's stomach clenches, locks around sharp stinging need, flashes of those fingers dragging over his skin, sliding into him, slick and heavy, and Lance tosses back another shot. Russians live on vodka, he thinks, slowly, they drink it like water, and maybe it's a cliché but that's still the way it is. He closes his eyes then, remembering all over that he doesn't belong here, he isn't Russian, isn't a cosmonaut, isn't much of anything at all.

On screen Em blinks in close-up, and Lance's eyes are open too, green like warm rain and then Em's on stage, trying not to smile, accepting another award. Lance's heart slams in his chest as Em reaches into his pocket, saying he made a list. Lance feels his smile spreading, slow and liquid, sees a handful of silver stars floating from Em's fingers, shimmering as they fall. At least Lance thinks they shimmer, but he's willing to admit he isn't sure, he's a little blurry right now, it could just be the vodka.

Lance doesn't hear the rest of Em's speech, doesn't see the folded slip Em pulls from his other pocket but never opens, doesn't see the smile on JC's face or the light in Joey's eyes. All he sees are those silver stars falling like so many scattered dreams, mesmerizing, and all he can do is believe.

\-- END --


End file.
